


exposure therapy

by gummies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arachnophobia, Developing Relationship, M/M, Slow Burn, Web!Martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23336911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummies/pseuds/gummies
Summary: “Are you sure it was him?” Jon asked. “Martin’s voice? Only Martin’s voice?”Rosie furrowed her brow, pushing up the bridge of her spectacles with one painted nail. “Erm, yes? Though he did sound a bit… raspy.”“Raspy?” Jon demanded.“Like he had a sore throat.” the receptionist supplied helpfully. “Maybe a bit of a cough?”Jon sighed, rubbing his face with one hand.“Would you like me to call him, Mr. Sims?” Rosie offered. Jon’s head snapped up so fast it almost gave him whiplash.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 70
Kudos: 287





	1. knock knock

**Author's Note:**

> so, for context: this takes place in an alternate universe in which oliver banks gives his statement to jon early, and jon wakes up from his coma before martin starts working for peter.
> 
> content warnings for specific chapters will be at the bottom of each, but just a general warning- this story is full of spiders.
> 
> thanks to The_Lonely_has_always_had_me for feedback!

Jon stared at the door in front of him.

He’d been staring long enough that he’d accidentally begun cataloging its features. Chipped, off-white paint. Dull, metallic knob. Scuffs at the side, like it got stuck often. One small, smudged peephole just under the plaque that held the apartment’s number.

For what might’ve been the tenth time, Jon lifted his hand to knock, only to hesitate just before his knuckles met wood.

 _Just do it,_ he told himself. His hand continued to not move. _Christ._

Martin was out sick. Supposedly. He’d actually called in this time. _Supposedly._ Rosie had seemed rather convinced of both during Jon’s impromptu interrogation.

 _(“Are you_ sure _it was him?” Jon asked. “Martin’s voice?_ Only _Martin’s voice?”_

_Rosie furrowed her brow, pushing up the bridge of her spectacles with one painted nail. “Erm, yes? Though he did sound a bit… raspy.”_

_“Raspy?” Jon demanded._

_“Like he had a sore throat.” the receptionist supplied helpfully. “Maybe a bit of a cough?”_

_Jon sighed, rubbing his face with one hand._

_“Would you like me to call him, Mr. Sims?” Rosie offered. Jon’s head snapped up so fast it almost gave him whiplash._

_"Yes, please.” he said._

_Jon watched her glance through the company files on her monitor, then type a number into the sleek landline on her desk. He held his breath as it rang._

_No answer._

_"Hm." Rosie said, once she'd finished leaving a message. "I'm sure he's just catching up on some rest. The hours you all keep, down there! The dedication's to be admired, no question, but-"_

_"Thank you, Rosie." Jon cut her off, head swimming too fast to leave room for smalltalk. "Update me if there are any new developments."_

_"Er- sure thing, Mr. Sims!" she shouted after him, but he was already out the door.)_

All things considered, Martin probably _was_ sick. It was spring. Maybe he had allergies. Jon had heard talk of a flu when he passed by Research that morning, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that something was going around. Even less so that Martin had caught it.

Unfortunately, if there was one thing their work has taught Jon, it was that something being _reasonable_ didn’t make it any more likely to be true.

 _I’m just stopping by the check on him,_ Jon thought. _Nothing odd. Dammit, the least I can spare Martin is a cursory check-in when he’s ill. Especially considering- everything._

Riding out the sudden burst of resolve for all it was worth, he knocked.

Nothing happened.

Jon waited what felt like an appropriate ten seconds before knocking again, louder. Martin was probably just resting, like Rosie said. Lord only knew the man slept like a rock (and snored like one was stuck in his windpipe- a fact Jon had lamented many a late night during Martin’s stay at the Archives). 

Again, no response. 

The worry that’d been pooling in Jon’s stomach all morning was beginning to creep up the back of his spine, setting him even more on edge. He shifted on his feet, adjusting his grip on the messenger bag he had slung over one shoulder. Jon had come prepared. He'd even stopped by the nearest outlet to pick up a few things he didn't keep at the Institute.

Gloves, several tape recorders (none of which he could recall packing), cold medicine, a pocket knife, a bottle of water, a pack of mints, a roll of bandages, disinfectant. And, at the bottom of the pile, a single can of maximum strength bug spray. Just in case.

Jon went to look through the peephole but it was, embarrassingly, too high. He tried the knob, more to cross it off his mental list than actually check, and was startled when it twisted. The door opened with a creak. Not too loud, but practically deafening in the silent hallway. Inside, the room was dark. 

“Martin?” Jon called out, eyes scanning what little he could see for signs of movement. Nothing.

Jon grit his teeth, fishing his phone from his coat and turning on its flashlight. He shone it past the doorway, but all he could make out were still shapes- cabinets, a table, a few chairs, a glimpse of another hallway, bending out of sight. 

Jon allowed himself a few seconds to weigh his options. Not that he didn’t already know what he was going to do, he just needed to justify it to himself. Oh well. At least he could admit it.

Best case scenario, Martin was inside. He was sick, and had likely forgotten to lock the door in his eagerness to get to bed. The clogged sinuses had given him a horrid pressure headache, and he’d dimmed the lights to take the strain off his eyes while he slept. He’d be sprawled out in his bed, or on the couch, and would look up at Jon with that terrible, awful softness in his eyes when he woke him up. Jon would leave assured of his fears, and he’d laugh the whole experience off on his way to the tram.

He did his best not to think of the worst case scenario, uncharacteristic as it might’ve been.

Finally, Jon swallowed his trepidation and stepped into the flat. He was instantly hit with a blast of hot, stagnant air, like someone had left a heater on high overnight. Maybe Martin _had._ Fevers brought cold spells, didn’t they? Maybe Jon should've brought a thermos of something. Was that something people did? 

(Jon had never exactly been known for his _people skills,_ even before he stopped being one. These days, he had absolutely no idea where he and Martin stood. 

Martin had been at the hospital when Jon woke up. Not the room, but down at the little on-site café. He’d walked in, taken one look at Jon sitting upright on his bed, and immediately dropped his tray to run forward and encapsulate him in the tightest bear-hug Jon had ever received. 

They were interrupted before either of them could get anything coherent out, and Jon had been drawn in for several hours worth of testing. It was in the early A.M.s when they finally released him, but Martin had still been there to take him home. Even now, he could remember the expression on Martin's face when Jon walked into the lobby. Disbelieving relief, like he’d just been given back something he thought had been taken away from him forever.

Sitting slumped over, half-asleep on the tram, one of Martin’s arms around his shoulders like it’d keep the rest of the world’s dangers at bay, Jon had suddenly understood just what it was they were hurtling towards.

He wasn't an idiot. He just... didn’t know what to do. It all felt so fragile, like one wrong move would send the whole thing shattering. Did he just leave it be, hoping the pieces would fall in place on their own? Or did he take initiative of some kind, and risk what tenuous footing they'd already found?

His first thought was, admittedly, to distance himself. Find some way to nip whatever Martin felt for him in the bud before it bloomed into something poisonous, because Martin was sweet, but-

And Jon didn't know how to finish that sentence. There was a time when he could list his assistant's faults at the drop of a hat, provide every possible reason not to do what Jon desperately hoped they were doing. And yet, now, they eluded him. Martin was sweet, and caring, and kind, and clever, and tall, and when he smiled it felt like he was slapping Jon across the face, and the only thing in the world that Jon was sure of was that he wanted to see it again.)

There was a smell to the room. Something dusty, with an undercurrent of metal. Not unlike an uncleaned oven, or a piece of meat left for too long in the sun.

Gritting his teeth, Jon kept moving, feeling along the wall for a light switch. When he eventually found one, it had no effect. 

He was immediately, viscerally reminded of the tunnels under the Institute. Of the first time he’d explored them, and how he’d gotten a little more lost with every failed torch. Jon checked the battery on his phone. A little less than half-dead.

Martin’s flat had little in the way of pictures. A few scenery posters, some with the odd card of what looked to be original poetry taped nearby. Jon read each with something that might’ve been amusement, if it weren’t for the building sense of dread. One or two were even decent. Under them all were old walls, faintly yellowing in that way that suggested they’d once been white. 

Jon crept farther in. The sofa was bare, save for several knitted… scarves? No- blankets? The patterns were strange. Long, spaced out lines that looked like they’d fit better on nets than drapery. He moved on quickly, nearly tripping over a pair of potted ribbon plants.

As he stepped onto the plush carpeting of the hallway, Jon’s nose wrinkled. The smell was getting worse the deeper he went. And there was another facet to it, now, too. The ghost of something sickly and acrid, like bile or urine. Jon tried not to gag, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as best he could. 

Then- a noise. Some sort of muffled groan, emanating from one of the two doors near the hall’s end. It sounded… off. _Inhuman._ Clearly animal, but more akin to the gurgle of a garbage disposal than a person’s voice. As it petered off, so did any hope Jon’d been holding out that everything was as it should’ve been.

He froze in place. Stood statue-still for one long minute, only allowing himself to breathe once he was sure whatever it was wasn't ongoing. Then he thrust a hand into his bag, fumbling for and unfolding the switchblade he’d brought with him. It was a small thing, unlikely to do much damage in the grand scheme of things. Especially against whatever was in Martin’s apartment. 

_Oh, God,_ Jon realised, _Martin._

He steeled himself, walking forward. His phone’s light cast shadows on the walls as he passed, bending the furniture’s shapes into a ghoulish puppet-show of pareidolic limbs and faces. He tried to recall how Daisy had held her knife, holding his own out in front of him with a shaky hand.

Jon nudged open the door closest to him. Inside was a tiny bathroom. He tried the switch and, to his surprise, a bulb flickered on. When he saw what was inside, he almost wished it didn’t. There was blood on the tiles, splattered in a trail of what looked to be handprints. They led to the tub, where Jon spotted the outline of something large and unmoving behind the half-hung shower curtain. 

He was across the room before he even thought to move his feet. 

The first thing Jon noticed was that it wasn’t Martin. _Thank Christ._ It wasn’t even a person- the body in the tub was that of a large dog. Jon couldn’t tell what breed, mostly due to the second thing he noticed.

Large pieces were missing from the creature. Upon further examination, it seemed less like chunks had been ripped out and more like some of the flesh had just… _dissolved._ Melted away, leaving only clean, white bones in its absence. There was even a bit of a puddle around the thing, dripping down and clogging the drain as it dried. Not just blood, but thick pastes of pink and yellow. A few clumps of fur.

Jon shoved his hand over his mouth to muffle his gagging. It wasn’t like it was the most gruesome thing he’d ever seen- that honor went to Jurgen Leitner, skull cracked open on the carpet of Jon’s office like an egg. But the _smell._ Whatever this thing was, it had obviously been in Martin’s bath for a good while, and likely dead for even longer.

Once he was sure he wasn’t going to retch, Jon stumbled back out, shutting the door behind him as gently as he could. 

Why on _Earth_ was there a carcass in Martin’s bathroom? Just what had he walked into? 

The smart thing, Jon knew, would be to leave. Call Melanie, or possibly Basira, if she was back from her latest search for Daisy. Not go on like he was, alone, and with nothing to protect him but a scrap of dull metal.

But- did that even matter, anymore? It wasn’t like he was going to get _killed._ Probably. At worst, he might come out of this with a few new scars. 

_Plus,_ Jon reminded himself grimly, _Martin’s human._ He was still in danger, even if Jon wasn’t. It wouldn't be right to just abandon him, especially when Jon was already inside.

With that in mind, Jon took a deep breath and opened the last remaining door.

After the light of the bathroom, being thrust back into complete darkness was somewhat jarring. As Jon’s eyes adjusted, he realised he was in a bedroom. _Martin’s_ bedroom. He supposed he should’ve expected as much, given a flat’s typical layout, but the prospect still caught him off guard. It felt strangely intimate, like Jon was barging into somewhere private- which, he supposed he was. Not that there was much to do about it, considering the situation. Still, Jon couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d thrown some new kind of vulnerability into their relationship, crossed some kind of boundary. Oh well- it wasn’t like there were many left between them, these days.

A flicker of movement tore Jon from his thoughts, and he took in his surroundings. He brandished his knife as he crossed the threshold. Hopefully, whatever he was about to face would focus on that, and not the way the hand holding it trembled.

It looked like a tornado had been through. The bed was stripped of sheets, and there were gashes in the mattress. Some shelves were overturned in the corner, their contents scattered on the carpet in various stages of damage. A desk was pushed up against the opposite wall. Under it was a large mound of blankets. Jon watched, frozen in place, as the pile shifted slightly, emitting another low moan from somewhere inside. The sound sent the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck standing up. He’d never heard anything like it before today, but he could’ve sworn there was something familiar about the sound.

As he swept his light over it, Jon noticed something peeking out from the blankets- a hand. Large and freckled, but otherwise nondescript. Jon might not have recognised it, had he not vividly recalled what it’d felt like resting over his shoulder on a midnight tram. 

“...Martin?” Jon called out, tentatively. The pile had already stopped moving. 

Jon pushed himself forward, curiosity overtaking caution. This close, he could hear laboured breathing.

“Martin?” he asked again, crouching down and taking both the phone and the knife in one hand so he could reach out with the other. Before he could make contact, the hand lying still shot out, taking Jon’s wrist in a vice-grip.

Jon yelped, jerking backwards. The phone slipped from his grasp, tumbling down onto the carpet at an angle. The beam of light coming from its back landed squarely on the pile, illuminating the scene. Jon watched in alarm as the sheets shifted once again, until they were slipping away and Jon could clearly see what was under them.

It was Martin. Bedraggled and wide-eyed- eyes that were blacker than Jon remembered, large and shining in the darkness. His mouth was open slightly, just enough that Jon could glimpse the fangs within, coming to wickedly sharp points just above and below his lips. Lips which, like most of the bottom-half of Martin’s face, were smeared with something red.

 _"Jon?"_ he rasped. Jon tried to yank his hand away. When it didn’t work, he did the first thing that came to mind- burying the knife into his assailant’s forearm.

Martin- _no,_ the creature that was wearing Martin’s face- let go of him in surprise, making a strangled noise of pain. Jon scrambled backwards, breath coming in fast. He went to stand up, but his foot snagged on something. Looking down, he could see that his shoe was half-sunken into a thick spot of what he’d previously assumed to be the carpet. With horror, Jon realised what it actually was. 

Webbing. Thick and spongy, looking more like a cheap Halloween decoration than actual cobweb. It was… _wet._ Glistening and sticky, clinging to him like it was coated in glue. Jon was suddenly reminded of every nature documentary he'd seen, every late-night trauma-fueled binge into arachnids and their eating habits. Of trapped insects, only tangling themselves further in their struggles, not seeing the predator skittering towards them until it was too late.

Instead of trying to extract himself, Jon abandoned the shoe entirely, tugging his foot free and clambering upright in the direction of the door. The strap of his messenger bag slid off his shoulder in his haste. Jon cursed, but didn’t stop. He could hear the thing behind him giving chase, seemingly untroubled by the webs that he could now see coating the floor. It was saying something, but Jon couldn't hear it over the pounding of his own heart.

He wasn’t going to make it. The front door was too far away, and Jon was too slow. Martin had always been faster than him- longer legs, better stamina. Qualities Jon could only imagine were now heightened. He glanced behind himself, sure he was hearing more footsteps than there should’ve been, but they’d moved out of his phone’s rays, and it was impossible to tell. All he could see were those _eyes,_ glinting like twin pieces of jet.

Jon swerved, changing tracks. He bolted towards the bathroom, guided by the small glimmers of light from under the door. He wrenched it open, slamming it shut behind him just as something heavy collided with the other side, and was barely able to twist the lock before the handle started to rattle. The door didn’t budge.

Jon let out a sigh of relief. He leant against the wall, only to slide down it as his legs gave out. Instead, he pulled his knees up to his chest and squeezed his arms around them. It took a few tries- he was shaking rather violently. Distantly, he registered that he wasn’t breathing. Probably not good, if the way his head was starting to swim was anything to go off of.

When he opened his mouth, however, Jon barely got to inhale before he was gagging, the awful scent of rotting flesh hitting him in full force. He didn’t even make it to the toilet before he was throwing up.

For a few awful moments, he was choking on his own puke. There was no time to breathe between the waves, just gagging around nothing. Thankfully, it didn’t last too long- Jon hasn't exactly been keeping up with meals, as of late. 

He was able to identify the half a muffin and cup’s worth of instant coffee he’d had earlier from the contents of his stomach. Most of it hit the tile in front of him, but a fair portion landed on the legs of his trousers. Oh well. 

_It’s not like I’m going to be wearing them again,_ Jon thought, perhaps a little hysterically. When the laugh bubbled out of his throat, he didn’t try to stop it, though it came out more like a sob. Soon, there were tears in his eyes.

Jon realised the creature was talking to him through the door.

"-please, Jon?" It was saying, and oh, _God,_ it sounded just like him. A little hoarse, but if Jon hadn't known any better, he'd think it really was Martin out there. Not some kind of… _spider monster_ that he'd been replaced with. Or become. "I'm so, so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, I just- _I_ got scared, and I didn't know it was _you!"_

The doorknob started to move again, and Jon instinctively scooted away, breath coming in quick little pants. He went to press himself into the corner, but that only brought him closer to the dead thing in the tub. Seeing it was so much worse than smelling it- looking at the melted tissue, the decaying meat, all Jon could think was _That's going to be me, once it gets past the lock._

"Jon, please come out," it begged. "I'm not going to- I know you're afraid, but I swear I won't hurt you." 

Jon laughed again. It would probably be smartest to stay quiet, not let himself get riled up. Any kind of emotional response was just going to be used against him. That was most likely what the thing in the hallway was looking for- some kind of leverage to coax him back into its clutches. Not that he’d even really left them in the first place. How hard would it be to break down a door? Was it just playing with its food? 

But Jon had never been very good at not playing into the Web’s desires.

“Funny,” he croaked, too terrified to sound bitter. “I might have an easier time believing you if I wasn’t trapped in a room with your _last_ meal.”

The creature made a pained, sputtering noise, like Jon’s words had _hurt_ it. “That- it was a _dog,_ Jon! I wouldn’t- I didn’t want to!”

“Why, not enough to satisfy you?”

“No! I mean- _fuck,_ Jon, I was- I was starving, and it was either that or a _person._ I had to!” Jon flinched away as it rose its voice, flattening himself against the wall. 

" _Jon,"_ it began, quieter, like it was speaking to a scared animal. Jon recognised the tone- it was one Martin had used with him often. “Please, _please_ just- try to understand. You need statements, right? You said you got ill without them? It’s- it’s like that. At least, I think? I’m- I tried eating normal food, but it only made it _worse,_ and then I saw my neighbor’s dog had gotten out again, and. And I just…”

Jon exhaled shakily. The words hit home, despite the fact that they were being used to… what? Try and convince him to let himself be eaten? Still, Jon couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. Even now, he could feel his own- no, the _Eye’s-_ hunger creeping in at the edges of being, gnawing into him with dull teeth. 

“But I’m still _me,"_ it finished, voice resolute.

 _“Are you?”_ Jon snapped, compulsion leaking into his voice like venom.

“Yes!” the thing- _Martin-_ answered immediately. 

Jon shoved his face into his hands, not even trying to conceal the sad, fearful whimper that left him. _Does it make it better or worse,_ he wondered, _that it really is him?_ Not another imposter- just Martin, sharp and hungry and covered in webs. Bits and pieces of Darren Harlow’s statement came to mind- how sweet Annabelle Cane had been, before. How monstrous, after. 

Was there enough left of Martin’s conscience that he’d feel bad, once he’d killed Jon? Unlikely. That was, _if_ Jon could be killed. Maybe as Martin fed, he’d just… regenerate. An infinite food source. The thought sent what little remained in Jon’s stomach roiling.

“Jon,” Martin said slowly, somewhere between exasperated and pleading. He must’ve been getting hungry. Jon curled in on himself tighter. “Okay... I can tell that you don’t believe me. Would… would it make you feel better if I gave you your bag?”

Jon bit his tongue, resisting the urge to cry. He didn’t want his bag. He wanted to leave. He wanted this to all have been just another bad dream, a new nightmare to add to his collection. He wanted Martin to hold him like he had on the train home from the hospital and tell him everything was going to be okay.

“If you aren’t okay with opening the door, I could, erm, slide your phone under? You… you could call Melanie? Or Basira?”

“So you can use me to lure in more victims?” Jon hissed.

“Bloody hell- _no!_ So you can get someone to pick you up! Why do you think I called in sick? I didn’t even want _you_ to see me like this. And for good reason, apparently! You can’t just hide in my bathroom, Jon!”

Loathe as he was to admit it, Martin was right. What was he going to do, sit down and wait to starve? He hadn’t read a statement before coming over, too caught up in Martin’s disappearance. How far would the previous one last him? It hadn't taken long for the hunger to set in, before- and that was when he was still human.

“I _appreciate_ the _input.”_ Jon spit, summoning up as much vitriol as he could. “Any alternate suggestions? Ones that _don’t_ end with me cut open like a split pig?”

“Are you being serious right now?” Martin scoffed, “You literally barged into my home and stabbed me, unprovoked! Which- I’m _fine_ by the way, thanks for asking!”

 _“‘Unprovoked’?_ You grabbed me! And- and chased me!” It felt almost silly to say out loud. _I’m not over-reacting,_ Jon assured himself. _I’m_ not.

“What else was I supposed to do? I wasn’t going to- I just wanted to talk-”

“Sure,” Jon cut him off, the manic laughter returning, “I’m sure you had a _lovely_ chat. Maybe that’s why I never saw him again, hm? Too busy with dinner reservations? What about you, Martin? What’ll it be for you? _Tea parties?”_

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Martin demanded, sounding less angry and more bewildered. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I’m not going to- to _eat_ you. I’m not even that hungry anymore- not that I would, if I was! Just… for the love of... Jon, _please_ open the door.”

Jon pressed his palms into his eyes until it hurt. The worst part was, he wanted to. 

He thought of Gertrude’s body. Of all the pain it brought, the seeds of paranoia it planted in his brain. How he’d watered them with his suspicion, his stalking, until they'd grown into a forest of potential killers. Of promising to trust more. Of how tired he was of being afraid.

Jon was still tired. The adrenaline was mostly gone, now, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion in its place. He felt empty, like all the emotions had bled out of him. It took all his effort to reach for the compulsion, words buzzing as they left his tongue.

_“Are you going to kill me?”_

“No!”

_“Are you going to hurt me?”_

“Of course not! That’s like, my worst nightmare. I’m sorry if I did, before, when you woke me up. I really didn’t know it was you, and I wouldn’t have if I did- not that I don’t want to touch you! I always want to touch you!”

“I,” Jon floundered. How was he supposed to respond to that? Thanks? Apologies?

“...Is that to say you’re not going to injure me, or that I just won’t feel it?” he eventually settled on asking, too weak to compel. Jon couldn’t help but think of those teeth, mind drifting back to the nature documentaries. What species of spiders had sedative venom? Were any native to London? Did that even matter?

“Christ, Jon, _no._ I won’t. I promise. I’ll... I’ll even go back into my room if it’ll make you feel safer, okay? That- yeah, that’s probably for the best. I’ll just...” There was a sound of shuffling, like someone getting up.

Jon took a deep, steadying breath. Every instinct he had was telling him to stay put, not to place his trust in the mercy of a monster. 

...But hadn't he already asked Martin to do the same?

Jon wasn’t sure exactly when he stopped being a person. Maybe it was when the dreams started, all those months ago, a change so slow he didn’t notice until it was too late. Maybe it was in the wax museum, and the last scraps of his humanity had been burned away in the explosion.

Either way, as far as Jon could tell, Martin’s trust in him had never faltered. Even when the evidence was against him, he’d held out faith. And more importantly, Martin had been there for him- whether it meant staying stalwart through police interrogations and threats or sitting at a hospital bedside. Didn’t Jon owe it to Martin to trust him? On the off chance he was telling the truth?

“Wait,” Jon said. The footsteps halted.

Slowly, Jon unfolded himself from his ball. He stood on shaky legs, using the sink to haul himself upright. He stared at the doorknob for a long second. Then he reached out and flipped the lock before he could think better of it.

When the door stayed shut, no spindly limbs coming to seize him, Jon opened it a crack and hesitantly peeked out. Standing in the hallway, one hand up to shield his eyes from the light, was Martin. He looked like hell. 

His clothes- a tank top and sweatpants- were both badly wrinkled and stained nearly beyond recognition. Dull red splattered the fabric, continuing past its edges onto his skin, his hands, his _mouth._ Even with the bathroom’s miasma, Jon could tell he smelled like blood.

His eyes were wide, and Jon could now tell that they weren’t _entirely_ black. He could even make out a sliver of iris, eclipsed by pupils blown unnaturally large. When they landed on him, Jon shivered. For all they'd changed, they still looked at him with that familiar mix of concern and affection. Mostly concern, at the moment.

Jon pushed the door open fully, and Martin’s shoulders slumped with relief. He looked like he wanted to run forward and hug him. Instead, Martin took a step back. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he was waiting for Jon to instigate. Jon just clenched his jaw and crossed his arms around his middle, willing them not to tremble.

“...Hi, Jon.” Martin eventually began, presumably realising Jon wasn’t going to speak first. He brought one hand up to rub nervously at his neck.

“Hello.” Jon answered. He searched Martin’s body for- webs, maybe? Anything off, anything more to signal Martin’s transformation into the monster Jon now knew him to be. There were no webs. None that Jon could see, at least. He supposed it made sense. What use would it be to get caught in your own traps? There were, however, spiders. Well, _spider,_ singular- fat and fuzzy, perched contently on the top of Martin’s bare foot- but Jon doubted it was the only one. He glanced around surreptitiously, checking his own legs. He didn’t find any, but it did little to ease the crawling of his skin.

“Are you… okay?” Martin asked. Then, seemingly seeing the state of Jon’s trousers, “I, erm- Do you need clean clothes?”

Jon flushed, embarrassment somehow displacing fear. “Do _you?”_ he challenged, looking pointedly at Martin’s tank top. Martin followed Jon’s gaze and did a double take, inhaling sharply, as if he was noticing the viscera for the first time. 

“Oh my god,” he breathed, “I, wow, okay, that- that’s- _shit.”_ He slapped his hands over his mouth, like he could subsequently stop Jon from seeing the gore on it. When he spoke again, his voice had risen an octave and his words were twinged with guilt. “Would- can I please get past you? To use the wash?”

Jon let out a noise somewhere between a snort and a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. He stepped aside and Martin immediately squeezed past him, all but barreling into the bathroom. Martin moved to shut the door, but hesitated. 

“There are trousers in my dresser? Erm, second drawer in the middle.”

With that, he closed the door and Jon was left alone in the hallway, all but reeling at how quickly their positions had switched. He glared at the entrance to the bedroom, at the webs creeping past the threshold, and weighed his options. Just when he’d decided to stay put, the spider that’d been on Martin’s foot crawled out from under the door towards him. Jon did an about-face, suddenly eager to leave the hall.

He retrieved his shoes before anything else. The sensation of spongy webbing beneath his toes made him cringe, and he had to pat down his feet after every step, sure that he could feel spiders scuttling along his heel. Jon kept them on when he changed, which turned out not to be an issue. The smallest thing he could find was a pair of ratty joggers at the bottom of the aforementioned drawer, and even that was several sizes too large.

Just as he finished tying the drawstrings, something caught his eye. A glint of silver in the dark. Jon traced its source to one of the many books on the ground, tucked into the webbing near the center of the room. He approached as if in a trance, cold dread washing over him as he fell to a crouch.

The book was lying open to the first page, but Jon couldn’t discern any of the words beneath the layer of gossamer coating them. Delicate threads stretched out from the pages in all directions, joining with the disgustingly thick lattice that blanketed the floor. As it was, Jon could just barely see the thin, metal plaque peeking out from the web. But he didn’t need to read it to know what it said.

Jon took the cover between two fingers, careful only to touch the edge as he closed the book. The author’s name had been enveloped, but its title was clearly visible, the letters connected stylistically. _Ready, Set, Weave: a Step-by-Step Guide to Advanced Knitting._

"Don't!"

Jon let go of the page, swiveling his head in surprise. Martin was standing in the doorway. His clothes still looked like they belonged in an evidence box, but the rest of him was significantly cleaner. He rushed forwards, reaching out like he was going to haul Jon upright, then catching himself and wringing his hands awkwardly.

“That’s not a good book,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Jon responded dryly, “I wasn’t planning on reading it.” 

Martin cringed. “That’s not what I- I _mean,_ it’s a Leitner. It’s what did all...” he gestured to the scene around them, shrugging one shoulder _“...this.”_

Jon got to his feet, violently sweeping away any clinging webs. “Yes, I gathered. But why do you _have_ it? Did you take this from Artefact Storage?”

“No! But, erm, that’s probably where it should end up? I’d- hm.” Martin pressed his lips together, brow furrowing as he looked Jon over. “I was going to say you could take it with you when you leave, but I actually don’t think that’s a good idea?”

Jon tensed, swallowing his instinct to make a break for it. Martin was nearly twice his size- not to mention blocking the exit. He chose his words carefully. “I thought you said you were going to let me leave.” Had Martin said that? He’d implied it, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he?

“What? Oh- no! I mean- yes, yeah, Jon, Jesus. I’m not going to hold you prisoner or something. I just… I don’t think it’d be a very good idea for you to take it there on your own? This is- it’s a dangerous one.”

Jon bristled, trying not to show just how relieved he was at the confirmation that he’d be leaving Martin’s flat. “They’re _all_ dangerous, Martin! They’re _Leitners.”_

“I know! I know, just- I barely got past the first chapter before stuff started happening, and-”

“Why the hell did you even read that far? Do you have _any_ idea how many statements we've- how many people have- you’re damn lucky to be alive!”

Martin flushed. “That’s exactly what I’m saying,Jon! The only reason I’m still here is because, _yeah,_ I got lucky and ended up being... _compatible_ with this one. And- and I can tell you right now that you _aren’t,_ so, excuse me for not wanting to see you get killed!”

Jon ran a hand through his hair, yanking at it in frustration. “What are you saying?”

“You saw my bathroom!” Martin said, shoulders rising defensively. “You know what it did to- what _I_ did! But it wasn’t- I don’t think it was supposed to happen. I think I was just supposed to die, but, erm. I… didn’t.”

There was a beat of silence as the words sank in. Something in Jon’s chest squeezed tight, like a vice around his heart. Martin may not have been a killer, but he _was_ still a monster. An avatar. Inhuman. He’d been… taken, despite Jon’s best efforts. And it’d been the _Web_ that’d done it, because of course it had. No matter how hard Jon tried, there was no escaping its grasp. Was this because of him? The guilt was thick enough to drown in. But there was something underneath- a flicker of wary excitement. 

_A monster,_ Jon thought. _Like me._

“Well.” Jon swallowed. “That makes two of us, I suppose.”

Martin blinked, and then, oddly, flushed. “Yeah,” he answered, those terrifying eyes trained on him with an intensity Jon couldn’t quite discern. “Yeah. I, erm, I guess it does.”

Jon took a slow breath, shifting from foot to foot. “...Martin?” he asked.

“Yes?” Martin answered, and if Jon didn’t know any better he’d say the man sounded almost breathless.

“Can this conversation be continued in the living room?” 

Martin blinked, then cleared his throat. “Oh. Oh! Yeah, erm, of course, sorry.” He hesitated as he left the doorway, glancing back at Jon like he expected him to run for the hills. Hell, part of Jon still was still considering it. But it was easily dwarfed by the other part of Jon, which was beginning to buzz with… something. Anticipation. Hunger. 

Something had happened, and Jon wanted- _needed-_ to know what. There was a new mystery here, something for him to unravel like a cat with a ball of yarn. He was filled with a sudden desire to pick Martin apart, to set out all the pieces in neat little rows and _examine_ them. 

Well. That was certainly new.

“Er,” Martin began once they got to the main room, looking around guiltily at the sorry state of his flat. “I don’t think I’ve much in the fridge right now, but if you’d like I could make us some tea? There should still be some black in the-”

“Martin,” Jon interrupted, and the man shut up immediately. _“What happened?”_


	2. the ties that bind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a BEAST. it certainly doesn't help that I went through several major life changes in its making, but still, holy shit. sorry for the wait- i hope some people are still following this. as with the last chapter, warnings will be in the end notes.
> 
> also, just for the record, i'm waiting to listen to season five until it's all out. therefor, this fic is probably not going to be consistent with it or portray some things the same way.
> 
> thank you to The_Lonely_has_always_had_me once again for feedback!!

“It didn’t even start that weird,” Martin sighed, collapsing backwards onto the couch. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Jon followed, easing down gingerly onto a blanketed cushion next to Martin. He wasn’t exactly sure how close he should sit- wasn’t exactly sure about _anything_ he should be doing. Until now, and aside from a few notable exceptions, all Jon’s statements had been taken at the Institute. Professionally. Even during Martin’s own previous ones, there had always been a desk’s length between the two of them. Now, sitting side by side on Martin’s loveseat, knees practically touching, Jon felt… vulnerable. Exposed. Like he was the one preparing to bare his soul out for Martin to peer and poke at.

It didn't help his discomfort that Jon was still in Martin's clothes. Not that he regretted borrowing them. No, Martin's pajamas were much more preferable than Jon's own puke-crusted trousers, which he'd left crumpled on the bedroom floor. But it was still odd, sitting in someone's home, wearing their clothes. Like the two of them were having a sleepover, not discussing a matter of life, death, or something worse. Another one of those jarring intimacies.

Jon was thrust from his thoughts as Martin elaborated. 

"Peter's been talking to me a lot, lately. You still haven't met him yet, right?" Martin asked, huffing out a small chuckle. He didn't wait for an answer. "Well, let me tell you, you're not missing much. He's _awful,_ Jon. I think I actually hate him more than Elias. They… they both have that same sort of smugness that makes you want to slap the look off their face. Not that I _would,_ obviously. Peter would probably murder me, even without all that weird loneliness… stuff. I've never even been in a fight. It came close a few times in highschool, I think? Because I'm fat and gay and no good at hiding either. But it never got physical, thank God. If I had to guess, I'd say it was because I was still bigger than everyone? But it might've just been that I avoided the right people. Which was most of them, honestly.

“Anyways- Peter. He’s pretty much Elias, only… _worse._ I’m not saying Elias isn’t awful, trust me, it’s- you know all of that put-on pleasantness Elias has? The smarminess? That’s Peter. But, like, dialed up to the tens, and completely unconvincing. He’s so _fake._ Everything he does, it’s- it’s _hollow._ The things he says, the way he talks. It’s like he’s not even listening to himself, but he likes the sound of his own voice too much to stop.”

Martin took a deep breath, running a hand down his face. “He’s infuriating. He’s _annoying._ And he hovers- just, just standing around and smiling. But it never reaches his eyes. His _eyes,_ Jon. He looks like a dead fish. That first day, if I hadn’t seen him blink, I swore I would’ve poked him with a stick.”

Jon leaned forward on his elbows. His thoughts had cleared, abandoning previous trains to latch onto Martin’s words. Dimly, he recognised a familiar pull beginning to take hold in his chest. Something akin to hunger, but deeper. Less instinctual. Less _human._ It was a building want, a _need,_ the barest hint of something frighteningly desperate sparking inside of him.

This wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, but it _was_ the first time he could recognise the feeling for what it was. A deep and otherworldly desire, welling up from somewhere in the back of his mind and flooding his senses. Martin was right- Jon had never before seen Peter Lukas, but in that moment he could’ve fooled himself, his head filling in the spaces left by Martin’s words like the lines in a coloring book, permeating the picture with all the anxiety and frustration and _fear_ that rolled off of Martin in waves. It wasn’t seeing, not exactly. But it was something close.

It felt good. More than good- It felt _right._ Like breathing in fresh air. Like gorging on steak after eating nothing but popcorn for days. 

Like feeding.

"Peter has these two ways of communication," Martin said, "one is when he appears out of nowhere. See, I'll be up to my elbows in files, or follow-up, or whatever the daily distraction is, and suddenly he's right there. Standing over my shoulder, going on about workplace ethic, or finances, or _Java,_ of all things. He'll spend a minute talking circles around me, and then- woosh! Gone, as soon as he appeared. And I'm left there, trying to make heads or tails of it all.

"Worse, though- worse is when he does the opposite. Peter shows up, complains a bit, and then _stays._ Like he has nothing better to do than wander around the room, rifling through papers and touching everyone's stuff. It sets me so on edge, and every time I finally begin to forget about him, he starts _humming._ God. I never used to be the kind of person who got mad at these sorts of things- I’m still not. I mean, I _hope_ I’m not. It’s just- I can’t help but feel like he’s trying to get under my skin on purpose.”

Martin turned to Jon, looking at him for the first time since he began talking. Jon felt his breath catch in his throat. He’d nearly forgotten how intense Martin’s new eyes were. 

“Taste of my own medicine, huh?” Martin said, a small, self-deprecating smile playing across his face. There was no accusation in his voice when he continued. 

“For the record, though, I was never actually trying to distract you. Well, I was a _little._ Not for,” Martin waved his fingers, _“nefarious_ reasons, or anything. It was mostly because I was worried. You were always earliest to work and last to leave it. Not even, some nights- you had a _bed_ at the Institute, for God’s sake. And, erm, you know... sometimes I just liked hearing you talk.”

Jon did not know. He’d thought that might’ve been the case, sure, but it was still staggering to hear out loud. By the time he’d processed the words, Martin had moved on.

"But, like I said, I think Peter’s doing it intentionally? And it’s impossible to get anything done with him there. I just stare at my desk, waiting for him to finally get bored and leave me alone.”

The smile faltered, and was replaced with a tight-lipped frown. “...I'm not _completely_ daft, despite what you might think. I've listened to the statements, I know who Peter is- which one of the- the _things_ he's connected to. I know what he’s doing. What I _don't_ get is why he's doing it to me, of all people. It’s not like my work is important enough to be distracted from- I’d be surprised if Peter even fully understands what _his_ job is, let alone mine. And he hasn’t actually been outright hostile at any point, so I don't think he's planning to… kill me, I guess? Or whatever it is he does to people.”

"That’s kind of what stings the most." Martin said, laughing. It was a cold, humorless laugh- nothing like what came to mind when he thought of Martin's. The divergence was so shocking that, for a moment, Jon couldn't believe the sound had come from him at all. “It doesn’t seem like he’s planning anything. Or, not with me. I think he’s just messing with me to mess with me. For _fun.”_

“After his visits, I'm always cold. It's not even purely physical- it's, it's like I'm lacking something. But instead of warmth, it's… energy? Emotion? I feel exhausted, stagnant. It's like I'm stuck in a pit, but the pit's inside me, and I'm too tired to climb out.”

"Usually, I try and sleep it off. That works about… half the time? The other half, I either can't or I wake up worse. I'm starting to develop a bit of a routine. I get home, take a hot bath, and then I lay down on the couch for a kip." Martin glanced down, breaking his gaze from Jon's. He patted the cushion of the couch in question affectionately. "It sounds silly to say out loud, but I kind of prefer it to my own bed. I used to have to sleep on the couch a lot as a kid, so comfort isn’t really an issue. Also, my room is super quiet. Not that that’s new, but it’s… harder to deal with, on those days. Out here isn’t much better, but at least I can put a documentary or something on. Back when I was staying in the Archives, I had to swipe tapes to listen through at night. They didn’t exactly help with the nightmares, but it was better than nothing. Plus, if I tried hard enough, I could block out most of the actual statement part. Then I’d basically zone out and pretend you were there in the room, lulling me to sleep. It was, erm. Surprisingly effective? Your voice is... very nice. It even inspired me to write, once- something about a siren who keeps trying to kill a restless sailor, but the sound of his voice only puts the sailor at ease.”

Martin laughed again. “God, that’s pathetic, isn’t it? No wonder Peter likes me so much. Speaking of which- so, last Friday. I guess that’s when this all started.”

“I was already having a pretty bad day, to be honest. The Archives feel so much emptier than they used to. They have for a while, but it’s just so obvious now. I keep- I keep _forgetting._ No one’s even cleaned out Tim’s desk. Some mornings, I see it when I come in, and there’s always this split-second where I wonder whether he’ll show up today. And then I remember why he won't, and it’s like getting slapped in the face and falling in cold water at the same time.

"I- I don't know how much you remember of how it used to be, since you were always holed up in your office and all, but things were beginning to be… kind of nice. Comfortable. I was really nervous, at first- I thought for sure my luck had finally run out, that you’d fire me any day, and then it’d be right back to sending out applications en masse. I was so distracted, planning how I was going to stretch my next, presumably last, paycheck- rent, grocery money, my mother's bills. What I'd be able to hold off on until I got accepted somewhere else. It was terrible, and I couldn't focus, and that just made me mess up _more._

"Tim and Sasha noticed pretty quickly. They never figured out I was lying about my qualifications. Or, if they did, they never said anything? They _did_ go easier on me, though, tried to step in when they saw me floundering. I'm- I'm still not sure on how much what I remember of Sasha was real, and how much was what replaced her, but I remember her being there for me a lot. Showing me how to use the new systems, that sort of thing. And Tim- it was so hard to be worried around him, then. Every time I'd start to spiral, he'd sling an arm around my shoulders and crack jokes until I felt better. I’d- ugh. This is going to sound so dumb, but I’d never really had friends like that before. Back in Research, I had to figure everything out on my own. I mean, I knew people, I had acquaintances. But it was different, working so closely with such a small group. It was… yeah. It was nice.

"Things are different now, obviously. Basira's basically shut herself away in the library since she got back from the Unknowing. Not that I blame her- Melanie isn't quite what I'd call "fun company", and I, erm, I think I may've fumbled her first impression of me somewhat, back when she started coming by. Melanie's too, but I don't mind that one quite as bad. She doesn't seem like the kind of person I'd want to spend time with, when I can avoid it. Which is thankfully pretty often. I don't know where she's been the last couple weeks, but if you haven't noticed, it's not her desk. Sometimes, I forget I'm not the only one down there.”

Jon shivered. He could _feel_ Martin's words. Frigid air on his face, carrying the smell of old, dusty books. A stillness so quiet it spoke louder than any speech. And most of all, the slow, creeping dread of knowing that you are completely alone, evidence to the contrary aside. Memories and feelings blended together, until Jon couldn't tell Martin's from his own. A strange, unspoken communion completely in contrast to the knowledge being shared.

The pull in his chest was getting stronger. It felt like there was a magnet inside of Jon, a subtle tugging that directed him towards Martin like the needle of a compass pointing north.

“That’s usually when Peter appears. It’s hard to tell whether he’s the one doing it, or if that’s just what lures him in, like a shark to blood. Either way, that's what happened on Friday. He wasn't there for long- five minutes, tops, and right at the end of my hours. I was pretty pleased at first, but then it hit me- that was the longest conversation I'd had all day. Aside from the brief hello I had with you when I got in, it was the _only_ conversation I'd had all day. And it, er, it hit me a bit hard. Like, I got that cold feeling, and suddenly all I could think about was how _alone_ I was, sitting in a vacant room, working a job I took almost _solely_ because the one person left in my life couldn't bear to live in the same city as me.

“And then I left. By the time I realised I hadn’t said goodbye to you, I was already out the building, and I almost went back, but then I stopped in my tracks. What would the difference have been? I’d trade making it to my bus on time for, what, getting a few seconds to look at you while you brushed me off? The sad thing is, I almost did it. I felt weirdly guilty the whole way to my flat, like I was doing something wrong. But then I realised it was the opposite, that you were probably relieved to have the space. For me to stop crowding you for a day, constantly checking on you and babbling on about tea like an idiot.

“So, I went home. Sorry it’s such a mess, by the way. I haven’t had the energy to clean much. Friday was one of those times where sleeping didn’t help, and I woke up feeling- not awful, but not good, either? Out of it. Disconnected.

"The usual things didn't help. I showered, but I must’ve forgotten to pay the utilities because the water was cold as ice. The documentary I played didn’t work, either- if anything, hearing the voices echoing through my flat made it seem even emptier. I thought about going for a jog, doing something to vent the restless energy, but the prospect of going out in public and being seen made me nauseous. I even considered going next door and asking my neighbor if I could pet her dog, but that felt _too_ sad. And weird. In the end, I settled for throwing open the windows and working on some hobbies. I thought maybe doing something I enjoy would help, would make me feel more like myself again. 

“I tried poetry first. They say pain makes good art, right? Well, I must not’ve been in enough of it, because I couldn’t write a single line. The words just wouldn’t come. By the time I admitted defeat, there was a small tree’s worth of paper crumpled up around me, and there was ink all over my hands from getting too unsteady with my pen.

“After I abandoned that idea, I tried to do some other things. Cooking seemed like it’d be fun, and it’d make me feel productive- but then I realised I’d need to go pick up groceries before I had enough ingredients to make anything good. I used to have a window garden, but all the plants died when I started staying at the Archives overnight, and I’ve only recently started rebuilding my collection- repotting any of them now would stress the roots out.”

“I found the book while I was digging through my shelves, looking for something to read. I used to read a lot, when I was younger. Again- no friends.” Martin shrugged one shoulder self-consciously, pressing his lips for a moment before moving on. "But I stopped around when I started having to take care of my mum full-time. It wasn't her fault, I was just too busy for it anymore. Since I started working with the Institute I've had a better schedule, so I try to pick up books every now and then. There's this little shop not too far from here, and on Sundays they put out this big clearance bin filled with all sorts of things. I usually find something good, or at least _interesting._ Once, I found someone's own manuscript that'd been slipped in! I think that's still on my shelf, somewhere."

"Most of them are. I haven't actually finished many- bad habit, I guess. I tend to get part-way into a book before forgetting about it for weeks, and by the time I remember, I'm too overwhelmed, exhausted, whatever, to start back in. But watching them pile up on the coffee table makes me feel guilty. For slacking off, or wasting money, or something. Hence the shelf- out of sight, out of mind, you know? It's easier to let things go if I can ignore them.

"The book I found was a knitting manual- not too surprising, considering how many I’ve bought over the years.”

“That was one hobby I always had time for,” Martin said with a small smile. It was a familiar smile. The same one Jon had come to expect when Martin brought him tea and held doors for him- a shy, hesitant thing. Bashful, even, with soft-looking lips parted just enough to show a glint of blunt teeth. Except these teeth weren’t blunt. They were sharp and jagged, the shape reminding Jon of something between a wolf and a great white.

“People never believe it, but I was actually a pretty small kid. Once I hit puberty, well.” Martin gestured to himself with one hand. “It felt a bit like I grew a foot overnight. We didn’t exactly have the money for a whole new wardrobe, and that was when my mother’s coordination was starting to go, so... I had to learn to sew.”

“The first few times, my mum had to talk me through it. Have you ever tried to do needlework while someone yelled at you? It’s harder than you’d think. Thankfully, I picked up the motions pretty quick. And I liked it! Sewing was fun, and useful, and I could make little dolls out of scraps.

“All things considered, it was a pretty good jumping off point for knitting. The two are different, obviously, but they share a lot of fundamentals. And I got the hang of it eventually, even if it took a little longer than with sewing. But I liked knitting even more! It was harder, more complex, but a lot easier on the hands. Plus, it felt more personal. Anyone can sew two pieces of fabric together. Anyone can make a scarf, too, I guess- but you’re still designing it yourself, as opposed to tweaking something already existing.

“Like sewing, my mum was the one who introduced me to the basics. But even that took a whole lot of badgering, and it was plain to see she didn’t really care. So, most of what I know, I had to teach myself on my own. And I did a pretty good job! At least, I think so? But every time I go to events, or even just get into talks while buying supplies, I feel… fake. Inferior. It’s a struggle to hold up my end of relatively _any_ conversation, since I know so little about actual technique. And don’t even get me _started_ on the terminology!

“I’ve tried taking a class before, but it didn’t go well. The instructor was fine, but I could tell she didn’t believe me when I told her how long I’d been knitting. And maybe she didn’t mean to be, but she was _so_ condescending whenever I asked her anything. Sitting there, surrounded by beginners, it was as if all the work I’d put in meant _nothing._ I felt like such a failure. At some point, I realised I was going to cry, so I said I had to spend a penny, and then just... left. Walked right out the door. I didn’t go back for the second class.

"So, yeah. Knitting books. The one I found had been on my shelf for a while- long enough for me not to question why I couldn't remember where I got it from, to assume it was nothing but another long-lost case of buyer's remorse. It’s funny... I have this vague recollection of unpacking the book after I moved flats. But the more I think about it, the less sure I am I put it in there to begin with.

“Too bad I wasn’t doing much thinking last Friday. Kind of the opposite- I was still trying to take my mind off Peter. Knitting seemed like the perfect solution, since it was involved enough to keep me occupied, but methodical enough not to be too draining. And, honestly, part of me was just excited to try out some new patterns. 

“God, the _patterns._ I flipped the book open, and right off the bat, I thought I knew why I’d forgotten about it. Everything was so complex, way more complicated than the stuff I was used to. Just reading through the instructions was enough to make my head spin.

“I almost put the book down then and there. But I was restless, and bored, and nothing else was working, so I didn’t. Who knows how long I sat there, skimming through pages. Socks, scarves, hats, sweaters, gloves- there were so many, and they were all so beautiful. Even if each looked like it’d take an age to make. 

“Eventually, a design caught my attention. It was a simple one- comparatively, at least. A throw blanket, more for decoration than anything else. My flat’s so bare, I hoped it’d add some character draped over a chair, or something. And maybe seeing it would encourage me to practice more, like with my poetry on the walls. So, I dug out the box of supplies that’d been gathering dust in my closet, ignoring all the half-finished or otherwise abandoned projects I’d never had the will to throw out, and grabbed a fresh ball of yarn.

“What _really_ caught my eye was the motif. The blanket was made up of these correlating points, all branching out into long, graceful lines of yarn. The way they were set up, the lines overlapped and cut across one another, intersecting seamlessly. It was _gorgeous._ The kind of thing I dreamed of being able to make. For a while, I just stared at the pictures, running my fingers along them, enthralled at how _right_ all the threads looked together. Like the pieces of a puzzle.

"It was a lot harder to put together than a puzzle, though that probably goes without saying. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried knitting, but you have to be really careful when you’re following instructions, especially if you’re trying something new. You can't afford to make mistakes."

Martin outstretched his hand, taking something down from the top of the couch, Jon recognised it as one of the oddly shaped knitted blankets he’d seen when he’d come in. 

“This was the first attempt,” Martin said. “It's not very good- I've been out of practice."

This close, he could see the intricacies of the yarn. There were a number of imperfections Jon could notice, and likely many more he couldn’t. A double-stitch here, an extra line there. Martin ran his fingers lovingly over one such snag.

"That's the thing about knitting- it's a long game. Every move you make is important, everything plays a part, no matter how small. You slip up, you stumble for a second, and the whole thing is ruined. On the surface, it might not seem so bad. But the inner workings are what matter, the loose threads. And just one is enough to send all your hard work unraveling."

Martin pulled on the bit of exposed yarn, and it went free without resistance. Jon watched as a large section of the blanket came undone, twisting apart and fraying out like split hairs.

“After that, I knew I had to try again. I couldn’t quit now that I’d begun, couldn’t leave another loose thread. So, I got out some more yarn and dug my heels in. This time, I paid attention. I counted the stitches, then counted them twice. When I found a mistake, I went back and fixed it, no matter how long it took, how many rows I had to take apart. It was tedious, but- but _satisfying._ The mistakes got further and further apart, until I stopped making them at all. Before long, I didn’t even have to go off the book anymore.”

Abruptly, Martin dropped the thing, letting it fall to the floor in a ruined heap. He turned back towards Jon, reaching in his direction.

Jon flinched, but Martin’s hands didn’t follow him. Instead, they landed on the edge of the coverlet Jon had been sitting on, gently tugging it out from under him. As Martin held it up for him to see, Jon inhaled sharply. 

The difference was night and day. Unlike the first, this blanket was immaculate. Where the other had been marred with imperfections, it was flawless. There were no extra lines, no crooked bindings, not a sole stitch out of place. Nothing to mar the pattern. 

The web. 

The sight wasn’t surprising. Not even unexpected. But it still sent a shiver down Jon’s back, still made his fists clench. As he watched, a tiny, lone spider scuttled between the holes in the knitting.

Jon wanted to back away. He wanted to retch. He wanted to _leave._ But his feet might as well have been nailed to the ground, for all the good it did him. The tightness in his chest had returned, and it was suffocating, _spreading_ as Martin spoke, a clinging heaviness that traveled up his throat and settled around his neck like a leash being pulled taut.

“It was over too soon. I tied the last end, cut away the last bit of thread, and I was done. My hands shook and my fingers ached, but it was worth it. The piece in front of me was gorgeous- all arcing angles and jagged grace. When I began, it was nothing but a long, dull thread. Now, it was art. Every strand had a place, a role. All these little points of pressure, pulling against each other _just_ so _._ If a single one didn’t hold, all my work would be ruined. But they _would_ hold, because I’d made sure of it. I’d been careful, and restrained, and I’d followed every step to the letter. I don’t think I’ve ever poured so much intent, so much _purpose,_ into anything else in my life.

“It was... it was euphoric, a rush. It was _inspiring._ The kind of thing I could’ve written poetry about. I probably would’ve, if I’d been able to look away from the finished thing long enough to pick up a pen.

“There's this weird feeling you get after you've been knitting for too long. The closest thing I can think of to compare it to is stepping off a treadmill. It's kind of jarring. Your hands are so used to the motions, the repetition, that it feels almost _wrong_ to keep them still, and without the constant backdrop of the pattern to focus on, your head seems… empty. Listless. So, I sat there on the floor for a few minutes, staring at the blanket in my hands- it was about midnight at this point, by the way- and I thought _"What do I do now?""_

“Before I’d even finished asking myself the question, my hands were moving again. I picked up my needles and cast on a new stitch. _I’ll do some free-knitting,_ I decided. _Nothing wrong with a bit of practice, especially since I’ve been neglecting it so much._ And the pattern was so lovely, I might as well make absolutely sure I had it down before going to bed. Sleeping helps you retain information, right?

“But I didn’t go to bed. I stayed there, crouched on my bedroom carpet, and just… kept knitting. And knitting. And knitting. My hands lost feeling pretty quick, but that didn’t stop me. Neither did the hunger pains. I don’t think anything could’ve, in that moment. It- it wasn’t that I couldn't stop. It was that I didn’t _want_ to. Nothing seemed important enough to stop for- not food, not sleep, _nothing._

“Around sunrise, I started to realise something was wrong. There was light streaming in through my window, I could see it out of the corner of my eye, and somewhere in my mind, it registered that I’d been at it for too long. Not entirely- for a while, all it was was this… vague sort of unease. It didn’t seem like a big deal at first, definitely nowhere near as important as what I was doing. I told myself I’d stop soon, once I’d finished the latest row. But by then I was already looping the next stitch, so it became the row _after._ And after. And after.

"I don't remember when it dawned on me. Sometime between Saturday and Sunday, I think? The sheer physical discomfort had finally won out and caught my attention. I convinced myself to take a break, go get some water, and even that took _hours._ But when I stood up, that sense of _wrongness_ came back. Everything went muddled. My head, my limbs, they felt… not heavy, but tight? Like I was pulling against something, and it wouldn’t let me go. I remember, in the moment, I kept thinking about this awful story Peter had told me about how to throw someone overboard. How you just tie weights to their ankles and toss them past the side, into the water.

“Right then, I think I knew what drowning felt like. I couldn’t breathe- there was this terrible weight on my chest, but it wasn’t _on_ my chest, it was inside it. I took maybe two steps before collapsing onto my knees and crawling back towards my needles. When my vision stopped swimming, I watched myself pick them up and in where I left off, like nothing happened.

"I fought it. A few minutes later, I got up again, I guess hoping that I'd get farther, that this was something I'd be able to chip away at. But that time, I didn't even make it two steps. Even without the- the _pulling,_ I was weak. It'd been two, maybe three, days of sitting frozen in place, no eating, no sleeping, and every time I put the needles down, the effects came in at full force.

“So, when I stood up next, I took them with me. And it worked! I left my room on shaky legs, and the part of me that wasn’t still focused on knitting was delirious with relief. I might not have found a solution, but I figured out the problem. There was this sudden swell of pride in me, this strange, feverish confidence. I used it to stave off the exhaustion, dragging myself forwards and stumbling out in the sitting room. 

“My impulse was just to walk out the door, try to get to the Institute. I don’t remember what exactly my plan was- to find Artefact Storage, probably. They deal with this sort of thing all the time, right? And I mean, for God’s sake, we stopped the apocalypse! Surely we’d be able to figure out some _knitting.”_

Martin grit his teeth. He dropped the thing into his lap to wring his hands, short, bitten-down nails digging into his palms. His voice was clipped when he next spoke.

“Then I remembered. _I_ wasn’t the one who stopped the Unknowing. That was you, and Basira, and Daisy. That was _Tim._ While the people I cared about were off saving the world, off _dying,_ where was I? Back in the Institute, safe and sound! And it wasn’t as if I had anyone to blame- it was my plan, after all. My amazing, brilliant plan. The one time I’m let to help, the _one time_ I’m given the chance to prove I’m more than some big, blundering idiot, and it ends with one of my friends in the hospital and the other _buried.”_

“And wasn’t this just typical of me?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, a sickly sweet condescension. “Stupid, stuttering, benign Martin. Went and broke the most basic rule, made the most obvious mistake in the book and opened one without checking. Good thing he limped his way back to home base so the important people, the _professionals,_ could take pity and sort him out!

“I imagined giving my statement. The way you’d look at me and sigh, because of course I was this helpless. That I couldn’t manage a single weekend without dumping another problem on your desk, as if you don't already have enough to deal with. _Of course.”_

Martin took a deep breath. As he let it out, his shoulders slumped.

“I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Besides, even if I could, how was I going to get all the way from here to the Institute? Now that I was thinking more clearly, the futility of the situation sunk in. There was no way I'd be able to navigate the tube system in this state, and it wasn't like I could make it on foot. Not that far- I’d collapse from exhaustion before I even reached the building.

"I was trapped in my flat. _Again._ But this time, I knew it wasn't the kind of thing I could wait out. No one was coming, and I was getting weaker by the moment. I had a feeling that if I didn't find a way out soon, I never would.

"So, I did the first thing that came to mind- bringing my needles down over my knee and snapping them in half."

Rubbing one hand over his knee, Martin sighed.

"Saying that out loud now, it doesn't sound very smart. But it made sense at the time- and in my defence, I was kind of starting to panic. 

"The needles were one of my smaller pairs- about a size fourteen. They split apart with two loud, simultaneous cracks, the wood splintering down the middle and ruining them beyond repair. As they fell from my hands, I thought they looked like the legs of a dead insect, brittle and broken.

"Immediately, the exhaustion returned in full force. But the, the urges, the desire to keep knitting above all else- that lifted. And I could _move._ Staggering away from where I stood, my foot slipped and I landed flat on my back. I probably would've busted my skull open if something soft hadn't broken my fall.

"It was the free-knit. Or, well, what _had_ been the free-knit. It'd gotten big while I worked on it, much bigger than the last two- I wasn't following a pattern, so there was never any reason to end it. Logically, I should've run out of yarn ages ago. Maybe I did. The threads in front of me were white, but not the gentle cream I remembered. More of a sickly pale, like something that'd had all the color sucked out of it. The cables, too, had changed. They were as symmetrical, as perfect, as ever. But there were more of them. Thicker patterns and thinner threads. If I looked closely, I could almost see them glistening.

“I tried to pull myself up, but I couldn’t. My hands caught in the stuff, sinking in like it was made of wet tissue paper. When I jerked them back, they were covered in it- long, pearly strings of gossamer stretching out from my fingers to the ground. My legs kicked, my arms flailed, but it was useless. The more I struggled, the more tangled I became.”

Martin trailed off, eyes sweeping across the room. They went from the blanket in his lap to the one on the floor, trailing towards the open door to his bedroom, where the webs spilled out and onto the tile like overflow. Then, finally, to Jon himself.

“When… when you were stopping the Unknowing, and Tim pulled the trigger… did you know? That you were going to die, I mean. Or did it all happen too fast?”

Jon wanted to answer, but when he opened his mouth, no words came. _Had_ he? The Unknowing may’ve been something of a blur, but those last few seconds were crystal clear. The dizziness, the confusion, the pure _disorientation_ was a mark in his memory like a smudge of ink. Confusing, and yet so stark.

"There was nothing slow about my death," Martin said. "I knew it was coming, and I was terrified, but somehow that wasn't the worst part. It was how _powerless_ I felt. I'd stopped moving, as not to wrap myself up further, so I was just laying there. Staring up at the ceiling of my flat, trying and failing not to hyperventilate. And this is- it's petty, and terrible, but in that moment, I'd never been more jealous of Tim. 

"He got to go out in a literal _blaze of glory,_ and there I was, fighting for consciousness on the floor of my apartment. Dying the same way I lived- helpless and unimportant, like an extra in a bad horror movie. Trapped, ensnared by my own web.

"I thought about Tim for a while. Then Sasha, and- and then my mum, funnily enough. It probably says something about me, but even when I was about to die, I was fretting about how to cover her bills.

“I’m not going to pretend my funeral’d be crowded, but I… I do _do_ things. I have responsibilities, even if most of them are pretty pathetic. There’d be holes with me gone, empty spaces. Little ones, but they’d still be there. My mum, she… well. You’ve had to’ve heard the tape by now. I want to say that despite everything, she’d miss me. That she would regret how she treated me, how she took me for granted. But deep down, I think I know that’s not true.

“Still- that bookstore I like doesn’t get much business. I bet they’d wonder what happened to any regular customer that suddenly disappears. The Institute would notice pretty soon, too, but I doubt they’d put out a missing person’s for me. My landlord might, if only out of obligation. Oh, and Peter would have to find someone new to torment. Not that it’d be much trouble- he’d probably go after you next, all things considered. People like him- the avatars- they seem to like to. Honestly, that’s a bit of the reason I put up with him so often. S’not like you need anymore new scars.”

A bashful smile crept across Martin's features. It was faint, almost fond.

“Plus, without me, who would bring your morning tea? You definitely wouldn’t make it yourself. And you never went out for lunch with any of us, but I’ve also never seen you bring one. Sometimes I worry that a cup of green jasmine and a biscuit are the only things keeping you going.

"As I was thinking, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Back in my room, by the closet door, I could see the thing that started this whole mess. The book was sitting there by the wall, next to the rest of my knitting supplies. But it wasn't what caught my attention.

"For the first time, I realised just how many projects I'd begun but never finished. Half-woven bundles of yarn, some even still on their needles. They were scarves, mostly- those are the easiest to give as gifts. A few hats. Even a little pair of socks I'd been working on for Hannah's baby shower, before everything got so out of control. 

"I’d been starting to work myself back up, but looking at them, I felt… regretful? That I'd leave so many things uncompleted. I thought about it all again- my mum, Peter, _you._ About all the things I wanted to do but hadn't, that now I never would.

"Thinking that, this weird sense of calm came over me. At the time, I guessed I might've finally gone into shock. And then, suddenly, the urge to knit returned.

"It was… I don't want to say _weaker,_ but it didn't feel as all-encompassing as it did before. There was no physical pull, either- not that I could tell. I probably could've resisted it if I tried hard enough.

"I didn't. I mean, I did at first, but there wasn't much strength left in me by then. And what other options did I have? I thought, at the very least, I wouldn't have to keep waiting. I'd get to have _some_ agency in my death.

“So, I gave in. It was… different than it’d been before. Less like I was checking out. I kept waiting for the haze to come back, but it didn't. If anything, my mind felt _clearer._

"My hands began to move. Unlike last time, it didn't feel like they were being directed by some outside force, but _me._ Not _me_ me, though. Inside me? Does that make sense? There was no fear anymore, just that calmness. The patience. I looked down at the mass of webbing around me, and I could see every individual thread. Not only that, but its path. Where it intersected with others, which ones would be affected if I pulled it. Which threads I'd need to pull to affect that one.

"Have you ever tried to untangle yarn before? It's kind of like doing a maze backwards. And can take a while, maybe even longer than the knitting itself if you let it get really bad. The trick is to find an end. You can't focus on anything else, any other knots, especially ones in the middle. It'll seem fine, but you'll only be making more problems for yourself later. What you need to do is follow the end, tackle each issue methodically.

"There weren't any ends near me. It was a perfect web. I realised pretty quickly that I'd have to disrupt the pattern somehow, but everything held strong. Nothing ripped, no matter how hard I yanked and scratched. The only way out was the same as the way in.

"Needles are helpful, obviously, but it's not impossible to knit without them. Definitely harder, but not impossible- luckily for me, I wasn't doing anything too complicated. The finished product was already there, I was just… touching it up. 

"I spent the next few hours up to my elbows in spider silk. Inch by inch, I worked myself out of the trap. Taking angles apart and making new ones from them, separating entire sections, only to weave them back together in different places. First were the webs on my hands, then my feet, moving up my body until there was only one left.

“A single, shimmering string. It corded around my neck like a noose, paper-thin but strong as steel. I couldn’t get it off. No matter what I did, no matter how many times I backtracked, how many different solutions I came up with, I always ran into the same dilemma. It was strung deep into the webbing behind me, and there was absolutely no way to undo it without garroting myself in the process.

“After the eight or ninth time, I was out of options. So… I did it. I closed my eyes and pulled the strand taut, doing my best not to choke while my hands moved on instinct. 

“All at once, the web constricted. It tightened, pushing right past discomfort and into unbearability. I couldn’t _breathe._ I… wasn’t prepared for the pain. Which- yeah, I’d been expecting it, I knew it would happen. But knowing isn’t the same as experiencing, is it?

“It didn’t work. Well, it- _it did._ In the sense that I got out eventually. I’m here now, talking to you, right? But it… I took too long, I guess. There was more to the tangle than I’d hoped. Too many strings to pull, too little time.

“The rest of me was shaking, but my hands held steady. Small mercies, huh? I was a little too busy to be thankful, though- the circulation was cut off from my neck, and blood was draining faster than it could be replaced. My chest was convulsing, and I heard this horrible sound- like a cat coughing up a hairball, but drier- and then I realised that it was coming from _me._

“I didn’t want to die. There have been… times. Bad days. _Really_ bad days- like when I saw your picture on the news, after the Unknowing. And I'd ask myself what I was even doing. What the point was. But that's- that's normal, it's not a big deal, and it's not like I ever acted on it or anything! Sometimes I'd just… wonder. What it’d feel like. If it’d be, you know... peaceful.

“This wasn’t peaceful, not at all. It was violent, and visceral, like I was holding onto my life by a thread. All I could think as my vision went black was that I wasn't ready. That I wasn't _done._

"I had… a dream, I guess. Does it count as a near-death experience if you actually die? I was falling through a void, completely disconnected. There were strings, ropes, hanging all around me, but they pulled away as I flailed for them, always barely out of reach. Eventually, I landed- no. I was _caught,_ in a net. It bounced on impact, but I stayed stuck to the surface. The cords rippled around me, like a puddle with a stone dropped in. No, not a puddle- an _ocean._ The net went on for miles, so thick that, after a few feet, I couldn't even spot the darkness under it. The strands, they were… everywhere. Everyone and everything. Invisible tethers bound the entire world, from a bird on a windowsill, to a bank robbery- _everything._ For a single moment, I saw how it all came together."

"And then I woke up." Martin finished. While he was talking, his eyes had gone strangely glossy. But they cleared as he licked his lips, tongue flicking over the sharp points of his teeth.

"I came to, and my neck was free. If it weren't for the ache in my throat, I would've thought the last few days were a nightmare. But when I got up, the webs were still there. I didn’t stick to them anymore, though, so that was good. While it was happening, I wasn’t really thinking clearly, obviously. But when I woke up, I felt… better. Better than I have in weeks, honestly. _Grounded._

“Things seemed… different. Not bad, but it was like my whole sense of awareness had shifted. I’ve always been a bit clumsy- it comes with the size. But walking around my flat, I could _feel_ where everything was, which path to take, down to the exact steps. 

“That wasn’t all. I could sense the people in the flat under mine, walking around. Or the old man in the one to my left, putting his hand to the adjoining wall as he stood up. A couple of kids down the hallway, tiptoeing as they snuck out to the nearest vending machine. It was just so _much._ And beneath it all, there was this building… well. _Hunger._

"It was intense- like nothing I'd ever dealt with before. It overtook everything- the panic, the fear, even the exhaustion. I scoured my kitchen, but there was nothing. Nothing that appealed to me, at least. The closest it came was the pack of ground beef I'd bought the week before. _Raw_ ground beef."

Martin winced, clearly reliving the taste. 

“Nothing else I tried worked- a sandwich, an apple, celery and peanut butter, a bag of crisps- nothing. The beef was- I know it _should’ve_ been disgusting, but it wasn’t. It tasted… fine, somehow? It was still raw meat, but it was almost _good._ Not the… ergh, this is going to sound so gross. Not the meat itself, but the juice. It’s not blood, right, but it’s kind of close? I started grabbing these handfuls of it and shoving them in my mouth, not swallowing, just sort of… sucking. And then spitting them out when they went dry.

"But that didn't help. If anything, it made things _worse._ I felt sick, and angry, and starving, and… and then I heard it.

"The hall outside my flat had emptied while I- while I ate. But someone had walked in. It was one of my neighbours. She's in business, I think. Always coming home late and wearing these trouser suits that look _way_ too expensive for where she lives. I recognised her by the click of her heels first- then, as she came closer, her voice.

"She was on the phone, throwing a wobbly at someone. The issue was some numbers thing? I couldn't make out much of the actual words. But whatever it was, she was fuming- completely distracted. Kept dropping the keys when she went to unlock her door.

"As I watched- felt?- her struggling, my mouth watered. I was so hungry, and she looked so… God, this is horrible, but she looked _alive._ Moving and breathing and _stuck._ It would've been so easy for me to- to do something awful. It was the middle of the night, and there was no one around. The man in the flat to my left was hard of hearing, and the woman to my right had noise-blockers in. No one would've known. Before I'd even really thought about what I was doing, I was at my door, face close enough to see her through the spyhole.

"Somehow, I restrained myself. My door stayed shut between us, and after a moment, she finally opened her own.

"A dog ran out to greet her. It was a Dobermann, I think. She just swatted it away and stomped farther into the apartment, voice fading with her. Faintly, I felt her lock herself in a bedroom and begin to pace. But that wasn't what I focused on.

"In her haste, my neighbour had forgotten to lock the front door behind her. It wasn't even shut completely.

"Slowly- so, _so_ slowly- I opened my own door and stepped out into the hall. I knew what I had to do. 

"It was colder than I remembered. And I felt odd. Outside, that graceful feeling had gone mostly away, leaving me… not off-kilter, but a little less _on-kilter._ The meat was still in my hand, and I sprinkled it along the carpet, leaving a clear trail to my flat. As soon as I was done, I slipped back inside. Then, I waited.

“Once the dog got tired of whining outside its owner’s room, it wasn’t long before I spotted it through the sliver I could see into the apartment. It nudged the door open with its nose, lifting its head high and scenting the air. The second it noticed the food, it was caught.

"I ducked out of sight. My flat's door was still open, and the dog didn't hesitate to come inside. It lapped eagerly at my carpet, finding the path I left and padding, unknowingly obediently, towards my trap.

"At the end of the trail, I'd put down a few handfuls worth of meat. The dog definitely seemed like it was enjoying the stuff more than me, and it didn't even look up when I snuck past to close the door. Completely oblivious. That was, until it heard the click of the lock. The dog's head shot up at the sound. It growled when it saw me, which... actually caught me kind of off guard? It'd always been such a sweetheart to me before, when I'd run into its owner on her way back from walks. Maybe it didn't recognise me anymore. Or maybe there's just something intrinsic about knowing when you're trapped- even if you only know when it's too late.

“I took a step forward, and it went to snap at me. Except its mouth wouldn’t open. As its lips peeled back, I could see the webbing I’d woven into my trap coating its teeth like glue. Jaw gummed together, the dog began to panic. It thrashed its head as it realised what I’d done, falling to the floor and squirming as it pawed desperately at its face.

“The next part was, erm… messy. I hadn’t really accounted for the step of my plan where I’d have to wrestle a fully grown Dobermann. I mean, I _did it,_ just, it took a while. And that dog must not have been to the groomers anytime recently, because its claws were _sharp._ I ended up with deep scratches all over. Not to mention the state of the carpet."

Martin sighed. "I’m _definitely_ not getting my deposit back. Not that that's the biggest of my worries, right now."

“Once the hard part was done, the rest was easy. _Instinctual._ I… do you remember what I said before? About being able to _feel_ things? I was feeling them along threads. They’re _everywhere,_ Jon, all the time, we just don’t notice them. They’re impossible to see- I can barely even feel them- but once you know they’re there, you can touch them. And- and if you touch them just right, you can _pull._

“That’s what I did. Pulling, _weaving,_ almost without any thought at all. Until I’d _really_ trapped the dog, hidden it under sheets of web that bulged and twitched but never broke. I dragged it to the bathroom behind me, and then… and then I, I-”

Martin grew pale. Jon watched as he struggled for words, but when he finally found them, they were choked. 

“I _ate_ it.” he said, voice breaking. “I didn’t- not killed. I didn’t kill it. I didn’t _bother._ And- and even now, here with you, when I go back to- to the whining, and the whimpering, and the blood, I’m not sick. Not like I should be. Because the- because it wasn’t even a dog to me anymore. It was a _meal._ The pain, and the fear, and all of that- it didn’t make it harder. It just made me _hungry.”_

All at once, the tension in the room gave way. Like a balloon popping, or a rubber band pulled until it snapped. The weight on Jon’s neck finally, _finally_ abated. He gasped, reaching out and touching his neck with shaking fingers. 

Jon’s body, it seemed, was back in his control. What of it he _could_ control- and a precious few parts that was, apparently. His hands were clammy, and there was cold sweat breaking out on his arms. Hands and arms which trembled slightly, even as he clutched them to his thighs. Inside his chest, Jon’s heart thundered.

Martin didn’t appear to be doing much better. He had slumped back in his seat, like a puppet with its strings cut, and was staring down at his hands with a mix of emotion too muddled for Jon to read.

The transition of a statement to reality was always a difficult one- always _jarring-_ but this took the cake. Jon couldn’t recall ever feeling quite so out of sorts. Not after a live statement. The closest thing he could think to compare it to was the immediate aftermath of his stay with the circus. A month bound and gagged, tied and trussed like a suckling pig, only to be cut free and stumbling in a moment. It had taken a week for the vertigo to truly pass, another before he trusted his legs to hold his weight.

Usually, the satisfaction of feeding- even when Jon hadn’t known it to be- was enough to block out the horrors he had heard. Or, at least undercut it a little. 

Now, there was none of that. The gratification, the fullness, was still present. But it might as well not have been, for all the good it did Jon. Searching for it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. There was just so much _fear._ And suddenly, he realised why.

It wasn’t Martin’s terror Jon was feeling. It was his own.

Jon stood abruptly, nearly tripping over the coffee table in his rush to back away. Martin’s head jerked up to look at him in surprise. Jon wanted to scream.

“I need to go,” was what came out instead.

Martin reacted as if he’d been struck. He froze in place, hands raised midway towards a gesture somewhere between pacifying and surrender. His face fell, and this time, Jon had no trouble reading it. Betrayal and despair played across his features like they were warring for territory, eyes wide and pleading. There was blood on his nails.

“You were right,” Jon said quickly, taking another step. “I- I shouldn’t- I think it’d be best if you brought the Leitner in on your own.”

"But- hold on, please, just-"

“Artefact Storage will want you to fill out some forms. If you- if you’d like to donate the book anonymously, there’s a stack of them behind Rosie’s desk. She comes in twenty minutes before we open to get the parking spot by the tree. Storage is locked and alarmed overnight, but if you leave it all for Rosie to find, she'll know what to do."

 _“Jon,”_ Martin begged. He sounded ragged, close to tears. Jon hesitated.

"Goodbye, Martin," he forced out. "I'll see you on Tuesday."

Then, he turned tail and ran the last few paces to and out the door, jerking it open.

Jon didn't stay long enough to hear the thing close behind him. Still, the creak of hinges echoed in his mind the whole way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for this chapter:  
> -discussion of depression and depression symptoms  
> -mentions and grieving of canon character deaths  
> -brief mentions of parental neglect and emotional/verbal abuse  
> -brief mention of suicidal ideation  
> -death by strangling  
> -cannibalistic urges  
> -graphic discussion of killing and eating a pet

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings for this chapter:  
> -arachnophobic character being forced to interact with spiders  
> -vomit  
> -brief discussion of cannibalism/cannibalistic urges


End file.
